Proud and Prejudiced
by Dark Rose of Heaven
Summary: Vivienne is fifteen and a half, and more in love with horses than with men. But an arranged marriage to fief Cavall tilts her world on its axis, and her determination to hate her stiff husband-to-be is trumped only by the attraction brewing between them.
1. An Unwelcome Arrangement

_Oh dear. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm unhealthily obsessed. But this idea came, and I couldn't not write it! This is the story of how Wyldon of Cavall married Vivienne of Heathercove. Not affiliated with any of my other works - this 'verse is purely VW, no future KW :). Probably only a few chapters. Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>Proud and Prejudiced<strong>

_An Unwelcome Arrangement_

"I won't," said the girl, stormy eyes flashing. "You can't make me."

"My dear girl, it's not a question of _making_. You simply _will_." Lord Aristaes of Heathercove folded his large hands on the desk and put on his sternest face. "Cavall is an old fief, wealthy and infamous for their dog breeding. To marry the eldest son is a great honor."

"But Father –"

"There will be no discussion, Vivienne. The papers have already been signed. When you were presented at court…"

"I haven't even _met_ the man," she interrupted, deadly pale except for two flaming spots of red high on her shapely cheekbones. Even at fifteen and a half, Vivienne was shaping up to become a lovely young woman. Her skin was clear and pretty, if slightly tanned and dusted with freckles from much time spent out-of-doors. Her large eyes were blue-gray with flecks of brown, and her red-brown hair was dark and wildly curly; even now, so early in the morning, the pins that constrained it fought valiantly to keep her locks from escaping their serviceable chignon. She had begun the change from girl to woman early. Though slim and upright, she possessed the kinds of curves not often found on a girl her age. Right now, her entire body was clenched in anger and betrayal, and it was almost possible for her father to forget she was a tender young lady.

"You danced with him once, when you were presented last Midwinter."

"One dance is hardly enough time to determine a potential marriage," Vivienne snapped. "And as I recall, he was a formal, stiff plank of wood who couldn't even crack a smile!"

Lord Aristaes' mouth firmed. "That is enough, Vivienne." He sighed at the mulish expression on her face, relenting. "It will not be as terrible as you think. Combining Cavall's kennels with Heathercove's stables will be a great asset to the realm. I hope that _you_, my dear, will take the initiative there. Part of your dowry is a large portion of our finest mares and three studs. You know horses like nothing else. It will be up to you to ensure the Cavall boy doesn't ruin the Heathercove bloodlines."

Vivienne bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, and looked away. "Bloodlines. That's what this is about." Her light voice was taut with barely-controlled fury. "Bloodlines, and whether or not I can drop a healthy son!"

Her father sighed. "Partly, yes. I am sorry, Vivienne, to thrust this on you so young. But you know the customs of Tortall as well as I. The match will be made. You have six months to prepare before the wedding."

Vivienne drew herself up slowly, staring her father down behind the desk. "I am only a girl," she said evenly, "and I cannot think, act, or marry for myself. But one thing you cannot prevent is how I feel. And I will despise Lord Wyldon with everything I have, as I despise you." With that iron voice dangerous close to breaking, she spun on her heel and left the room, slamming the door behind her. It wasn't very lady-like or grown-up, but it did provide some satisfaction to the heartsick girl.

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><p>Vivienne went immediately to the stables. The one constant in her life was the horses, and whenever she found herself becoming swamped, she always returned to them. Her mother's death, the onset of womanhood, and now the threat of impending marriage to a total stranger all drove her here, seeking out more than riding for a lark; she sought the comfort, companionship, and solace that only the sweet, musty smell of hay and horses could provide.<p>

One horse in particular had been her mainstay through the turbulence of adolescence. Startreader was a magnificent stallion, seventeen hands high at his powerful withers, with feathery hocks and a head built like an anvil. He was their main breeding stud for their destrier line, with a shiny brown-black coat and large brown eyes that regarded everything around him with idle curiosity. A blazing white star was formed precisely in the center of his forehead. A person who had not grown up around horses, as Vivienne had, would be frightened of him due to sheer size and strength alone; but she had helped foal him when she was eleven, had broken him to bridle, and had learned to ride a full-grown horse atop his wide back. He was her best friend.

"Hello, handsome," she cooed when she reached his stall, leaning over the wooden barrier. Startreader's large, furry ears perked forward, and he thrust his long nose into her face, tickling her with his long whiskers. "Of course I have treats you, silly – stop that!" she exclaimed, laughing when he dipped his head to snuffle under her arm. "Here you go, you great silly beast." Taking her arm from behind her back, she offered the apple on a flat palm. The stallion lipped at it briefly before taking it gingerly in his teeth and gulping it down.

Vivienne wiped horse saliva and apple juice splatters from her face, smiling through the tears that pricked her eyes. "I don't suppose you'd like to leave your nice comfy stall, would you? Go to a different place, with different horses, different humans to comb and brush you. It just wouldn't be the same."

Snack finished, Startreader lipped at the loose curls around her face, searching for more. This final act of comfort and familiarity pushed her over the edge, and she wrapped her arms as far around his thick neck as they would go, letting her tears overflow as she pressed her face into his mane.

"I don't want to go!" she whispered raggedly, voice breaking. "I don't want to marry a stranger, I don't want to have to have children! I'm not even sixteen, yet," she added, trying to breathe in the stallion's scent through her stuffy nose. "Isn't that just outrageous?"

Although he never made a reply, Startreader's calm presence gradually suffused Vivienne's trembling form. Eventually she released him and stepped back, regarding his face with bright, red-rimmed eyes.

"You're coming with me," she said at last, pleased with the measure of control she had over her words. "You're coming to Cavall with me if it's the last thing I do."

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><p>Vivienne made good on her promise. Five months later, after flurries of preparation, she went down to the stables to oversee the transportation of the horseflesh that was to be the main portion of her dowry. <em>An investment for the future<em>, her father had said, in one of the few conversations they had had since he'd given her the news. Careful to keep the bottoms of her fine skirts out of the muck of the stable-yard, she watched with eagle-eyes as their finest hostlers formed the mares into a small herd to be taken to Cavall. The stallions were kept carefully separate and confined as they were readied for the three-day trip.

Startreader, like his two fellows, took a lot of handling. Even the most gentle stallion can be easily distracted by the nearness of mares. But Vivienne stretched herself, drawing on the thin swirl of copper deep inside, and settled it like a fine blanket over the three stallions. Her connection with horses ran deeper than a surface admiration for the powerful animals; but her magic was too weak to be of much use, and so she kept it to herself. No doubt any hint of a Gift would bring her father sniffing around for more ways to put her up for profit.

With a twist of her lips, Vivienne turned her back on the proceedings and made her way back to the manor house. No doubt Elsa, once her nanny and now her personal maid, would want to make one last attempt to tame her hair before they departed.

"I will not ride into Cavall in a carriage like an insipid young lady," Vivienne announced. The set of her soft mouth drew it into a stubborn line. "There, at least, I refuse to pretend."

Lord Aristaes had convinced his daughter to be at least civil to her fiancé, to which she had reluctantly agreed. She had also agreed to ride in the carriage for the three-day trip. However, she was at the last threads of her patience, and even the Earl could see that to deny her wish would be asking for trouble.

"Very well. I expect you to ride side-saddle, not astride," he added, his craggy face a warning. "This is not the time for your foolish escapades."

"Yes, father," she replied, suspiciously demure.

Cavall was certainly magnificent. Vivienne felt her breath catch as they rounded the side of the hill, and immediately cut it off. _I hate it here. I hate Cavall, I hate its lord, and I __**definitely**__ hate the gorgeous scenery!_ At that point she decided to stop trying, and just resign herself to being in love with the estate.

It was nestled in between three hills, clearly not built for combat. Surrounded almost entirely by Fief Goldenlake, infamous for its hard-handed way of dealing with bandits and other trouble, there was little need to defend itself. The castle was ancient, built of weathered blue-gray stone; its high turrets thrust high above the trees that surrounded it. The wall was in slightly worse condition than the castle, with portions of it crumbling and even collapsed. But these areas had been fully exploited, whether by the villagers or the nobles, and bloomed with stone-growing flowers, moss, and tall, strong young trees. The village itself spread haphazardly around the outside of the wall and south. The homes were sturdy and well-built; many bore the intricate carving on gables and outer struts that told Vivienne a wood-craft artisan was in residence.

As the caravan passed through the main street of the village, the people came out of their homes to watch. They looked well-fed and well-dressed enough, like the people of her own fief. Vivienne wondered if the stiff lord she had met last winter was the same who took such good care of his people. Firmly, she pulled her mind away from its wanderings. It wouldn't do to begin feeling soft towards her enemy before she even met him. Instead, she returned the curious gazes of the villagers who watched their future lady ride by on an enormous warhorse.


	2. The Solar

**Proud and Prejudiced**

_The Solar_

Lord Wyldon of Cavall was a severe man. He was tall, but not extravagantly tall; he was muscular, but not overly so. His tunic was serviceable gray, his shirt and hose black, corresponding with the colors of his fief as well as the mourning he still displayed for his late father. His face was handsome enough, Vivienne decided as he greeted the party formally on the steps leading into his castle. It was strong, with a direct chin and a straight nose that looked as though it had been broken and poorly healed. His brow was stern, his wide mouth thin. But what really caught her attention was his eyes. They were some shade or another of brown, but their hardness turned them into two pieces of flint.

He bowed only as low as protocol required as he greeted her father, the stone set of his face not flinching. Vivienne noted with some interest that, for all he was in his mid-twenties, his light brown hair seemed to be thinning on top. But then he turned those hard eyes on her, and she curtseyed low to avoid them.

"Lady Vivienne, welcome to Cavall," he said, the courtesy of his words marred by the emotionless tone of his voice. Each syllable was dragged from his mouth as though he were reluctant to part with them. "I sincerely hope you will enjoy it here."

_You don't sound sincere_, Vivienne thought rebelliously as he bowed over her hand. _You don't sound __**anything**__._ But she murmured something polite in response, and allowed herself to be ushered to her temporary guest quarters by the housekeeper.

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><p>They were fine rooms, just across the hall from her fiancé and down from her father's. The Earl would be staying the night before making the return journey to his own fief. He would, of course, return in one month's time for the wedding. Vivienne sighed, and sat heavily on the edge of the bed.<p>

"We just passed through your private parlor – this of course is the bedroom," the housekeeper said, her tone markedly kind after her master's stiff greeting. "Just through there is the dressing-room and the privy. There is a solar just here, overlooking the gardens and the paddocks. You will find books and other amusements there, provided by milord. There is an hour yet until supper – a maid will be sent to help you dress."

"I have my own maid," Vivienne replied without thinking. But she refused to take back her ungrateful words; surely the older woman could not fault her for feeling disenchanted with her current situation.

The housekeeper bowed her head deferentially. "The Earl and milord have provided whatever servants you require, milady. Ninayn is a good girl, and has a clever touch with hair." She eyed Vivienne's coif pointedly. The quarter-hour ride on horseback had done it no good, and already the curls threatened to desert the pins altogether.

"Send her, then," Vivienne said, forcing herself to smile through the dull ache that was settling in her chest. "Goddess knows my hair needs all the help it can get."

"Very well, milady." The housekeeper made a short curtsey. "And welcome to Cavall," she added before leaving.

Vivienne stood as soon as the door clicked shut, and walked to the door that led to the solar. When she was not with her horses, her next love was books – she loved losing herself in their pages for hours on end – and she was curious to see what the stone-eyed Lord had provided for her enjoyment.

Walking into the room, she stopped short. It was on the corner of the castle, the part that had recently been renovated (according to her Father), and was part of a tower. Part of the circular wall was whitewashed, and three tall, curving shelves crammed with books reached from floor to ceiling; the other half was made of glass panes held in place by finely-wrought metal, and it looked over the estate behind the castle. Runes carved into the delicate metal struts told her that warming charms had been mage-spelled into its construction. It faced west, letting in the sunlight as it approached the horizon, and the golden-orange light flooded the tower room, illuminating everything it touched.

The glass walls were lined with curving window seats, well-cushioned. The cupboards below were open, revealing fabric, yarn, and other supplied for feminine pursuits such as embroidery and appliqué. In the middle of the floor – the polished flagstones covered with rich, thick rugs – was an elegant teak table with a chessboard on its surface, the black and white pieces set up as if waiting to be used. To one side was an easel, with the appropriate tools for painting or sketching; opposite it, a full-sized harp stood in stately splendor, the strings seeming to slow in the later afternoon light. Taking it all in, Vivienne felt a lump in her throat and realized that her father had indeed taken precautions to ensure her happiness.

Moving slowly, she went to the window-wall and looked out. Far out beyond the rolling hills of the southwest, she could just make out the twinkle on the horizon that was the ocean. Although Cavall boasted a small orchard and acres of grapes to supply its well-known winery, what truly caught her breath was the paddocks. The whitewashed fences ran for miles, interspersed with stables and outbuildings. The layout was familiar; she could pick out the foaling paddock, the mating paddock, and the mare paddock as well as the paddocks for stallions and geldings. Horses of all colors and breeds roamed the hills, running, frisking, rolling, or simply grazing. The mainstay were destriers: large, powerful horses warhorses built for carrying fully-armored knights into battle, as Startreader was. But Vivienne's experienced eye picked out a collection of delicate, pristine-looking Bazhir horses, some rough-looking ponies built for stamina and rough terrain, and the long-legged, proud-necked forms of racing horses.

"Cavall's stables are almost as fine as ours," she said out loud, hating the grudging respect in her voice. She couldn't see the kennels from the solar, but she had doubt they were even finer than this incredible spectacle.

Turning her back, Vivienne went to her dressing-room and changed quickly into a riding habit. She had time for a quick ride before dinner to clear her mind.

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><p>Lord Aristaes struggled not to sigh as his only daughter entered the dining room with chin erect and shoulders back. He'd suggested to Lord Wyldon that another maid be provided, since Elsa had little capability with coifs, but it seemed that Vivienne had either taken out her hair before coming down, or simply refused the girl altogether. She was dressed in a fine gown of cream-colored lawn that set off her complexion and brightened the rosiness of her cheeks; unfortunately, it also showed the smear of dirt on the side of her neck. Her hair was hopeless. A windblown tangle, it sported more than one twig of hay, and tumbled down her back entirely unrestrained. Though she had taken care to wash her face and hands, she smelled of the stables.<p>

"Forgive me for being tardy," she announced, not sounding repentant in the least as she gave the seated gentlemen a brief curtsey. "I was making sure the stallions were settled in."

Lord Wyldon gave no indication of shock or anger – or any other emotion, for that matter – as he helped seat her next to her father at the small, private table. "And did you find the stables to your satisfaction?"

Vivienne glanced at her father's flashing eyes and smiled primly. "They are well enough, my lord." She thought the Earl might choke, but he contained his emotions behind a very red face as the first course was served.

The lord of Cavall was a very private man, she decided. He kept all emotion and fervor behind a stoic face, and made no attempt to take control of the conversation. Whenever the topic strayed towards himself personally, he kept his comments brief and free of unnecessary detail. That suited her father fine: Lord Aristaes was perfectly capable of talking a stone wall for hours on end.

_Which is exactly what Lord Wyldon is,_ Vivienne thought to herself, hiding laughter at the idea behind her goblet of fruit juice. _A stone wall. Well, if he stays out of my business and I stay out of his, we should get along just fine._

The past five months had taught her a lot, she realized. She was no longer determined to hate her future spouse – no doubt it would make her life quite unpleasant, not to mention that it was exhausting to hold a grudge for so long – but she was definitely not interested in admiring him or liking him. _Simple tolerance should do nicely_, she thought, looking the man over from across the table. _I'll do my duty by him and by the fief, as long as he doesn't muck about in my affairs._ The word took on a double meaning in her mind, suddenly, and she struggled to keep from blushing. She certainly didn't intend on keeping company with other men! Her horses would suit her just fine. She didn't need the love of a man as long as she had them.

"How did you find your rooms, my lady?"

Vivienne jumped slightly, realizing she had been caught with her mind elsewhere. She rapidly brought herself to the present with a vapid smile. "They are quite adequate, my lord, I thank you." She thought of the solar, and felt a pang. _Am I being ungrateful?_

But Lord Wyldon simply inclined his head, as emotionless as ever. "I am happy you think so."

She swallowed and averted her eyes from his direct gaze. "I suppose father told you I like to read."

"He did."

_Is he making this difficult on purpose?_ Vivienne wondered, but let it go. She was not her father's daughter; she refused to hold a one-sided conversation. So instead of giving in to the temptation to gush about the titles she'd discovered in her brief perusal of the shelves, she turned her attention back to the meal, lending half an ear to the polite words passed back and forth across the table.


	3. Birth

_This chapter gets a little messy. I don't know a whole lot about horses (the being born part, anyway), so I kept it simple. I based everything on what I remember from reading James Harriot's books, about his life as a large animal vet in farm country in the UK. Any mistakes regarding anatomy or procedure are entirely my own. Thanks for reading!  
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><p><strong>Proud and Prejudiced<strong>

_Birth_

Vivienne sat bolt upright in the dark, breath harsh in her own ears. She knew the feeling that tingled through her, throbbing at her fingertips and taking the beat of her heart to a fast pitter-pat. It was the same feeling she used to get at home whenever a mare was nearly ready to birth. With a soft groan, she rolled out of bed and stumbled through the dark to her wardrobe, trying to orient herself.

It had been five days since she'd come to Cavall. She spent her days roaming the grounds, often on horseback, with a manservant to accompany her. Lord Wyldon, after a brief tour of the stables and the kennels, retreated to his study and remained there for most of the day. For several hours in the afternoon he could be found in the modest training yards sandwiched between the hillside and the kennels, tilting or practicing other weapons; but Vivienne felt out of place there, and stayed away. He was as inscrutable to her as ever, and she preferred to be with the horses she knew so well, or by herself in her solar. There, at least, she could forget the impending marriage for a while, lost in the books or the harp – forget that this month was supposed to be about learning everything should could about her fiancé. All she had managed to learn was that he loved dogs and horses, liked his privacy, and seemed to possess no emotion whatever.

_At least he doesn't have a temper,_ she reflected, pulling on breeches and a loose cotton shirt. Birthing was messy work, and a dress would only be in the way. Knowing that the midsummer nights could be cool in the hills, she pulled on a wool tunic and heavy boots before slipping out her door and padding down the hall as silently as possible.

Kern, the hostler on duty, was a grizzled fellow who was almost as stoic as his master, if a little more free with drink. Now, he leaned against the side of the spacious stall, pale eyes watching the mare in labor. He looked up when she approached, not seeming surprised.

"Git in, then," he said gruffly when she hesitated by the door. Drawing on a droplet of the mere handful of copper fire that pooled inside of her, she saw the same light blazing from him, and obeyed. It came as no surprise that Kern was as horse-hearted as she was – especially considering his substantial magic.

"How is she?" Vivienne murmured, kneeling beside the mare's head. She was Bazhir, with graceful legs that trembled as her flanks heaved up and down. Already sweat dampened her silver-colored hide, though it was early yet.

"She be doin' fine," the hostler said curtly, as was his way. After several hours a day spent in the stables, she knew he meant no offense – it was simply the way he was. "It's a big foal, colt I'm a-thinkin'."

"Is it her first?" she asked as she ran her hands over the creature's long, corded neck lightly. Although she didn't have enough magic to speak to horses, she had found through trial and error that she had some talent with calming them. Placating stir-crazy stallions was one of her specialties, but so was easing a mare's foaling.

"Aye."

After that, little was said. Vivienne remained kneeling in the straw, pleased with the conditions of the stall, keeping a tiny thread of calm connected between her and the horse. The mare was young and strong, and needed little assistance. But as the pale fingers of dawn spread through the cracks in the stable wall, it became apparent that something was amiss.

Moving slowly, Kern crouched at the mare's side and placed his work-worn hands on her belly. The great head tossed fitfully, scattering straw, and the mare's nostrils flared as she grunted for breath.

"Breached?" Vivienne whispered.

"Nay. Th' legs be tangled. He's wedged jist so, she cain't shift 'im on her own."

"What do you need me to do?"

Kern's weathered mouth pursed in concentration. "Fetch soap an' water – cold'll have t' do. See if ye cain't find some o' that rubbin' oil milord keeps for the finer tack."

Almost a whole week was more than enough time for her to know where these things could be found. Standing, she reluctantly severed the thread – she had almost no range to speak of when it came to her magic – and left the stall quickly. She'd helped with breach-births before, and they were far more serious than this. With a little extra lubrication, the foal was sure to be coaxed out into the world.

Vivienne returned swiftly with the required items, and they both rolled up their sleeves and washed their hands briskly. He muttered brief instructions, more intent on the mare than on her, but she wasn't concerned. This wasn't the first time she'd done this, after all.

"Why don't you let me?" she said as he reached for the bottle of pale, lightly scented grapeseed oil. "My hands are smaller."

He looked at her dubiously. "Tain't proper, miss."

"Piffle. If I'm to be lady here, I have every right to participate in each step of the breeding process, including the dirty work."

His large nose wrinkled, but he finally agreed.

Lathering her arm generously with the oil, Vivienne drew out a little more of the copper fire. It was dwindling fast, but after tonight – or this morning, rather – she would have plenty of time to replenish it. With capable hands she moved the mare's snowy white tail out of the way and slipped her arm into the birth canal. She felt the problem immediately. With her cheek resting against the sweaty, musky flank, buried up to her shoulder in wet flesh that squeezed painfully with each contraction, she found the foal's damp head. At the unexpected contact, it shuddered, lipping her palm, and a grin broke across her face.

"Alive and well," she gasped as another contraction made her bones creak, though there was little need to say so. Kern's magic told him everything, and he guided her with words as he sensed what needed to be done.

"His forelegs be all jumbled with 'is hind 'uns. Ye need t' try grabbin' 'em and pull 'im forward so he can git unstuck."

Gritting her teeth and thanking her tall father for her long limbs, Vivienne strained further until her slick hands found the spindly forelegs she sought. The intense, rhythmic pressure of the mare's contractions made her muscles feel like rubber, but somehow she managed to coax the tangled limbs into some semblance of order. Her wrist screamed briefly, and then the mare's body relaxed.

"There. I shifted 'er a bit so he ain't so stuck." Kern wiped perspiration off his forehead with one hand. "Come on out o' there afore milord comes and sees I let ye get yerself all muckied up."

"A bit late for that, I think," came a level, emotionless voice. Vivienne gritted her teeth as she let yet another contraction push her arm out and away from the birth canal, and sat up. Lord Wyldon leaned against the open stall door, regarding her with something strange in his dark eyes – could it be respect?

Vivienne shook out her arm and stood, wobbling a bit as she tried to push her curls out of her face and blot the sweat from her brow at the same time.

"Don't blame Kern," she said, sounding as tired as she felt. "I insisted."

He didn't say anything, but his strong hands took her elbows, helping her to totter to the side of the stall where she sat heavily in the straw. He was dressed as she was, she realized, except that he was barefoot. His white shirt was a little worn around the edges, tucked into faded brown breeches. As he squatted next to Kern and the mare, she watched curiously. There was something just beneath the surface, something powerful, that she couldn't name – like rapids were rushing just below his skin.

"How goes it?"

"Better, milord," Kern replied, as gruff as though he hadn't been caught with his master's fiancée's arm up the birth canal of a foaling mare. "He should come out easy, now."

True to his prediction, the foal was born a few minutes later. He was white, speckled with gray and black; his muzzle, ears, and lower legs were all gray. The frizz that was his mane and tail were gray as well.

Wyldon apparently felt that sackcloth was not good enough for the colt, because he didn't hesitate to pull his shirt over his head and begin rubbing the newborn down. Vivienne, barely sixteen, had never seen a man without his shirt off before; she was torn between looking away and blatantly staring. She compromised, keeping her gaze carefully averted from the easy slide of muscles under tanned skin and focusing only on his hands, surprisingly gentle as they handled the newborn foal.

The mother, relieved to have _that_ over with, hauled herself into a more upright position in order to inspect her firstborn. All was well. Kern left the stall with a quick salute, leaving them alone with the horses. Vivienne smiled to herself as she watched the mother and colt exploring one another. Already he was moving restlessly, trying to get his legs under him. This was always the most exciting time to her. After hours of labor and sweat, the mares found new life in the way their newborns explored the world, and this one was no exception. Rolling to her feet, the mare shook her mane and bent to nuzzle the struggling colt.

Vivienne was so immersed in the small miracle happening right in front of her that she forgot Wyldon was there, too. At least, she forgot until he leaned forward, body tense, as the colt finally got his legs under him. Had he _gasped?_ The stoic Lord of Cavall had _gasped?_ Realizing she was staring at him – especially the broad expanse of his shoulders, and the hard planes of his back – Vivienne forced her eyes back to the foal. He was up, finally, though his stick-like legs still trembled. With hesitant movements he turned his head towards his mother, seeking nourishment.

That was their cue to leave. Vivienne stood quickly by herself before he could offer assistance, and walked out of the stall on weak-kneed legs. Wyldon followed a touch more slowly, soiled shirt in his hands. Without words, they made their way back to the house. She was slipping back into her rooms when his voice stopped her.

"Vivienne." He stopped, coloring slightly. "Lady Vivienne."

She waited, thrown off-balance by this uncharacteristic show of emotion. "Yes?"

"I – I would like to…" He stopped and cleared his throat, bowing as formally as if he were clad in the doublet and hose of a nobleman, and she in the skirts of a lady at a ball. "Forgive me. I failed to recognize your skill and love of horses. You performed quite admirably."

Feeling a little giddy – perhaps it was the long night, though a traitorous part of her mind was inclined to blame it on the very attractive, very _male_ picture he presented clad only in a pair of breeches – Vivienne smiled at him for the first time with genuine happiness. "Thank you, my lord." Before her addled brain could convince her to do something foolish, like take his hand, she disappeared into her rooms and shut the door firmly.


	4. Falling

_Finished this just now, but I'll post the chapters a little more slowly :). This is mostly fluff haha, but hopefully takes their relationship one step further. If you're into odd (aka impossible) pairings, check out the drabble I posted called "Threats." It's short, and spare, and... strange. Very very strange. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and feel free to review and let me know what you think! DR  
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><p><strong>Proud and Prejudiced<strong>

_Falling_

After the foaling, Vivienne felt markedly more at ease with her fiancé – and, she often though, he with her. Although she still wore dresses most of the time, she dressed as a boy whenever she rode, which was often. At first, Kern and a few other hostlers took it upon themselves to introduce her to the best Cavall stables had to offer, but as the days passed, Wyldon was increasingly at the stables whenever she was. There he walked her along the halls, showing her the different kinds of horses bred for different purposes, listening with that stoic politeness as she offered her own knowledge. Although they usually took breakfast in their own rooms and lunch separately, she began to find that he often ate the midday meal in the kitchen with his servants. Having done the same many times as a child, she felt no qualms in joining them upon occasion. Here, she followed his lead. In the kitchen he was no longer a master, but a companion. He dressed simply – or simpler, if that were possible – and kept quiet, listening to the gossip and banter fly across the bustling room. Since she usually came in for lunch after hard riding, she was already clad in tunic and breeches. Thus, she felt perfectly at ease sliding onto a rough bench in a corner, curbing her appetite with crisp Cavall apples, fresh-baked bread, and local cheese with smoked ham or turkey.

One day towards the end of the second week, she was doodling in the solar when she heard a knock on the door. She had learned early on that between two bookshelves, behind a hanging depicting a Cavall ancestor's exploits, was a door that opened onto the main hallway. Curious – usually the only daytime disruptions came from servants, and they came through her chambers – Vivienne stood and opened the door to find her fiancé. He was in his desk tunic (as she thought of it), a dark blue that managed to hide the worst of the ink stains. His shirtsleeves were pushed up to reveal calloused hands marked with black, and a distracted look was in his eyes.

"Forgive me, Lady Vivienne, for disrupting you. I seem to have misplaced a book, and I was wondering if I might take a look at your shelves to see if it found its way here."

"Certainly, milord," she said, stepping back to let him in. It was the first time she'd really been alone with him, with no servants or hostlers or maids hovering in the background at their work. Feeling self-conscious, she drifted back to the window seat where she had been sketching the countryside, peeking at him out of the corner of one eye.

He moved with precision, if not exactly with grace. She had noticed that early on: everything he did was deliberate, planned, even down to the smaller movements he no longer consciously thought about. The way his hand rose to rub the back of his head, ruffling the thinning hair, couldn't be called absent-minded: just non-showy, if that was a word. Watching those long, calloused fingers trailing over the spines of the books, Vivienne felt a shiver tickle the back of her neck. _I wonder what those fingers would feel like trailing over __**my**__ skin…_

Alarmed at the direction her mind had taken, Vivienne firmly stamped it out and turned back to the window. Tolerating the man left no room for mooning, and she had no intention of fooling herself. She knew what happened in marriages like these. On their wedding knight, they would have sex – quick, uncomfortable, perhaps even painful. A few times a week after that he might come to her bed, leaving when he was done, until she became with child. If she produced a son, so much the better. Perhaps he would give her a few months or so after the birth to rest. But if she gave him a daughter, after the obligatory two weeks of recovery, the cycle would begin again. She had no illusions that her marriage would be any different than her parents'. Her mother, before she had died, had told her no uncertain terms what to expect, and she had long since resigned herself to such a fate.

But sometimes, watching the tenderness in his touch when he handled newborn pups, or the gentle way he'd rubbed down the blue roan foal she'd help birth, she wondered…

"Ah." That syllable jolted her from her thoughts, and she struggled to smooth her features into a semblance of polite interest. "I found it." He turned, holding the hefty tome in his hands, a short, twisting smile on his face. It was the first she'd seen, and she caught her breath at the way those flinty dark eyes warmed with inner laughter.

"What book is it?" she asked, remembering how to breathe. _Curse it, girl, where's your head? He's no different from any other nobleman!_

He glanced again at the title. "'A Brief History of Carthaki Equine Breeding.' I remembered what you were saying earlier today about the Bazhir horses and their remarkable similarity to the show horses in Carthak, and I was wondering if there might be a more profound connection."

Vivienne leaned forward, interested. "What do you mean?"

"Well, no one really knows where the Bazhir come from," he reasoned, the darkness of his eyes taking on a scholarly bent. "They've lived in the Great Southern Desert for as long as Tortall has been here – perhaps even since the Old Ones. But they had to come from somewhere, surely. Ancient history tells us that the Eastern Lands were once empty of human life entirely. What if they came from Carthak, and brought their horses with them?"

She regarded him quietly, trying to hide the way her heart pounded in her ears. That he had reached the same conclusion she had excited her in some way she couldn't fully fathom. "I didn't realize you were such a historian."

The stiff mask fell back into place; but she'd seen behind those flinty eyes before, and she was no longer intimidated as he replied, "It amuses me. My life has been less that enjoyable lately." He saw her flinch, and immediately retracted his words. "Oh, gods, Vivienne, that's not what I meant – please don't think that I, that you… that your presence here is… displeasing." He stumbled over the words, obviously flustered, though his body was held rigid, as if to keep his feelings from escaping too much.

"You mean your father," she said, meeting his eyes levelly.

Now it was his turn to flinch. "Yes."

She looked down at her hands. "I am sorry."

"It's not your fault." His voice was rough, and she was afraid that if she looked, she would see more emotion than he wanted her to.

"If it's any consolation, I know what you're feeling," she murmured, wondering if she was crossing a line. "My mother died not too many years ago. It… it still hurts." She stopped, afraid she would shame herself by crying. It occurred to her, too late, that she knew nothing of what he was feeling. Not only had he lost both parents by the age of twenty, but he was then saddled with the upkeep and repair of his home, the running of his fief, and serving the Crown as a knight, not to mention the burden of having to make a good match, provide heirs, oversee the breeding of his family's dogs, ensure that the stables and the winery didn't fall into disrepair, and prepare his people for the harvest ahead. _No wonder he's so cold and distant_, Vivienne thought as a new feeling towards her fiancé crept in: sympathy.

"I don't want your pity," he said suddenly, gruffly.

"And I do not offer it," she replied simply.

He stared at her, surprised out of his turmoil, and a slight shadow flickered at the corner of his mouth – a smile? "You are not what I expected, Lady Vivienne."

"Nor are you what I expected," came the frank reply. "But I must ask you to call me just Vivienne. I'm no lady, not really."

"A lady who rides astride and helps birth foals is as much a lady as one who spends all her time entertaining and embroidering," he answered, the shadow deepening, "but Vivienne it shall be, as long as you call me just Wyldon."

Vivienne swallowed, meeting those less-than-flinty eyes, and nodded. She wasn't sure she trusted herself to speak – she was afraid that if she opened her mouth, the butterflies in her stomach would escape and give away the pounding of her heart, the sweet ache that told her she was falling hard for Lord Wyldon of Cavall.


	5. Attack

**Proud and Prejudiced**

_Attack_**  
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The third week marked the turning point for Vivienne. Their gradual acclamation to one another's company had become friendship, somehow, and with it came even more unwelcome sensations. Sometimes, it was possible for her to imagine he was courting her, just as any other, more ordinary potential husband might do. They rode together through the orchards in the morning, when he didn't have business to attend to. She had bonded early on with a sweet-tempered, lively young mare named Windsong whom she called Winna, and Wyldon had insisted that Vivienne become her mistress. He himself rode a dappled gray gelding, a warhorse with Bazhir blood that he had purchased upon his knighthood seven years ago.

"We were still building the Bazhir line, then, and I was supposed to purchase a stud to begin breeding," he explained one day as they picked their way among the rows of peach trees. The heady scent of summer was all about them, and a bright blue sky gave the sunlight leave to sharpen every tree trunk, every blade of grass with abnormal clarity. "But then I saw Aries here, and I knew I couldn't pass him up."

"He's a beautiful horse," Vivienne agreed, pretending to admire the horse although she was truly admiring the rider. "You definitely have an eye for horseflesh."

Wyldon bowed from the saddle. "Thank you, milady," he said, and she realized he was teasing. The mere thought send her thoughts scattering, and she laughed before she could catch herself. The sound startled Winna, who had been walking along placidly, and the mare burst into a spontaneous trot. Laughing, Vivienne coaxed the mare faster with a squeeze of her knees. It was all the spunky Winna needed. She broke into a canter, carrying her mistress up the hill through the lines of trees. Looking over her shoulder, Vivienne saw that Wyldon had urged Aries to a similar pace, and then, suddenly they were racing.

The trees flew by as the horses galloped neck-and-neck. Knowing Aries was faster than Winna by virtue of his Bazhir bloodlines, Vivienne edged her horse into the center of the lane, forcing Wyldon and Aries to pull back slightly. She was bent over Winna's neck as they galloped, hair undone and streaming behind her, the freedom making her laugh aloud with delight, when there was a burst of broken twigs in front of her. She drew back on the reins swiftly, alarmed, as four rough-looking men leaped boldly from the trees and spread out in her path, weapons at the ready. A glance behind told her that three more men had sealed her off from behind. Wyldon was nowhere to be seen.

_Where did he go? He was just here._ Fighting the urge to panic, Vivienne soothed Winna with a thread of copper fire and tried to keep her hands steady on the reins. Surely he hadn't gone off and left her alone.

One of the men stepped forward, a fine sword in one hand, obviously stolen. The rest of him was too dirty and ragged for him to be anything but a bandit.

"Come off'n yon beastie, now, an' ye won't be hurt," he drawled, voice thick with a southern accent. Then, as an afterthought, "…much." His leer, and the leers of his men, sent a thrill of anger slicing through the cold fear that paralyzed her.

"I most certainly will not," she bit out, eyes flashing as she sat erect in the saddle. "You are trespassing on Cavall lands, and you will pay the price."

There was raucous laughter. "Oh, aye? By you an' whose army?" the leader sneered. She realized too late that the men behind had been sneaking up on her. A beefy hand grabbed her ankle, yanking her from the saddle. Her thread of concentration broken as she hit the ground with a painful thud, and Winna reared, a furious neigh splitting the air.

Half-dazed, held roughly by two pairs of hands, Vivienne barely realized that one neigh had become two until Aries burst through the barrier of fruit trees, rearing on his hind legs. Consciousness pulsed, flowing and receding, and she caught only bits and pieces of what followed. Wyldon was there, on the back of his horse, face set with a vengeful fierceness she had never seen before. He was silent, eyes hard, as he wielded the sword he always wore when they rode far from the castle. Something hot splattered her cheek; cries of pain mingled with unfamiliar, wet sounds as the bandits died by sword and by warhorse.

By the time the battle was over, Vivienne had managed to gain control of herself. Wiping at her cheeks, she discovered that her hands were red with blood.

"Vivienne."

He dismounted beside her, still holding his battle-reddened sword. He thrust it point-first into the ground as he knelt at her side, worry stamped all over his taciturn features.

"I'm all right," she whispered, closing her eyes as he helped her to sit up. She had a strong stomach, but she didn't trust herself after being knocked about. "They're dead?"

"Mostly." His voice was gruff, but the way he cradled her was incredibly gentle. "Let's get you back home."

Eyes still closed, she let him lift her into Aries saddle. When he settled behind her, she turned and pressed her cheek into the soft cloth of his rustic tunic, breathing in his scent. Somewhere between the orchards and the stables, she fell asleep, suddenly exhausted.

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><p>When she woke, she was in the solar. Someone, probably Elsa or Ninayn, had dressed her in a loose, comfortable cotton dress. Someone else, probably Wyldon, had laid her on the window seat cushion, propping her head up on pillows and covering her with a light blanket. For a while she gazed out the window, running the startling afternoon through her mind. The sun was setting, and it cast its beautiful golden light over the land – she could almost forget the terror that had happened not so long ago.<p>

A sound in the room made her turn, and she rolled over just in time to see Wyldon enter the solar by the hallway door, a tray in his hands. She could see a few cuts on his face, and one hand was bandaged; but other than that, she could make out no injury on him. Seeing she was awake, he gave her a wordless nod before setting the tray on the table in the middle of the room.

"How are you feeling?" he asked neutrally, setting out things for tea.

"Let me do that," she said instantly, worried at the way his injured hand trembled. Crossing over to him, she took the teapot from his grip and briskly poured the tea into two cups. Three weeks of living in the same house had taught her that he took his tea – and his coffee, and his juice, and everything in between – plain; so she simply handed him his cup and dropped two sugar cubes into hers. "I'm fine," she said finally, meeting his direct, probing gaze. She nodded pointedly to his hand. "What about you?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Fine."

Vivienne knew he was most likely making light of it, but said nothing. He was too proud, sometimes, but it was one of the things that made him who he was, and she would not change it if she could.

They sat on the window seat and ate informally with their hands, like they did when they ate lunch in the kitchens. They were quiet, but the companionship each felt for the other turned the silence into something soft and pleasant. Vivienne set her cup down, and wondered if this marriage might not be so terrible after all.


	6. Falling Stars

_Last chapter! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it ^_^. Thanks especially to **Emshadow1, Forward,** and **EmiRose** for your reviews!  
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><p><strong>Proud and Prejudiced<strong>

_Falling Stars_

"I don't like parties," she said uncomfortably, scooting a little nearer to the hearth. She was wrapped in one of his winter tunics against the damp chill that seeped through the stones of the tower room. It was two days before the wedding, and she almost wished it could just be over. That everyone would leave, and the castle would be empty again, and they could go riding or walking or sit and work quietly, each to their own, as before.

"Neither do I," he agreed, adjusting the telescope he held in his hands. It was very old and very large – she could hold it to her eye, but not for very long – and the myriad of knobs and gears baffled her. "Are you ready?"

Leaning close to the fire one more time, Vivienne stood and walked to the open window where he stood. At his direction she sat upon the broad stone lip, and he sat just beside her, holding the telescope for her. This required that he put his arms around her. He did so unassumingly, as he always did everything, but her heart still raced at his touch, and she fought to resist the urge to lean against him. But then she was looking through the telescope, and she gasped.

The stars were incredibly close. She could make out the Hare – above him, the Falcon leaped forward with wings outstretched, forever chasing his prey across the night sky.

"What do you see?" he murmured, breath ruffling the hair near her ear.

"The Hare and the Falcon," she replied, blushing at the way her voice shook. "If you move it like this… there's the Goddess. Oh look! The Cat is back in the sky."

"Really?" Wyldon lifted the glass to his own eye for a moment. "It's been gone for several years."

The rumble of his voice in his chest was too inviting. Vivienne succumbed to temptation and leaned her head back on his broad shoulder, letting their bodies meet as his warmth surrounded her.

"Do you see any shooting stars yet?" she asked, her voice a mere whisper.

"Not yet." He lowered the telescope, though his arms remained close around her. "Are you cold? You're shaking."

She opened her mouth to tell him she was fine, but couldn't form the words. Wyldon pulled back a little to look her in the face.

"Vivienne?"

She stared up at him silently. His face was in shadow, but the sliver of moon bathed part of it in white light, making his dark eyes glitter. He was incredibly handsome to her, and the concern in his strong face made her insides melt. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but could not.

He touched her cheek, his stoicism softening into something like tenderness. Vivienne's heart leaped as he leaned forward, dragging her towards him, and he touched his mouth ever so carefully to hers.

She'd never been kissed before, and she couldn't imagine anything more perfect. His hands were gentle as they cradled her face, and his lips moved slowly over hers, making her accustomed to the contact. It was obvious that he'd done this before, but Vivienne couldn't be bothered to care. The sweet pressure just felt too gods-blessed _good_.

A small gasp escaped her as they parted, and she stared up at him.

"I apologize," he said immediately, looking away from her. "It was highly improper."

Vivienne stifled a snort of derision. He _would_ think that. "I would've thought that, by now, you would know how little I care for propriety," she said, taking his hands.

He couldn't bring himself to look at her. "I – I was intending, when we married, to not share your bed until you felt more comfortable with me, with the idea of… physical intimacy. You are much younger than I, and I don't want to hurt you, or make you uncomfortable. You mean too much to me for that."

Her heart leapt a little at his words, for they were sweet and from the heart – but they were also daft, at least the first part. Lifting his scarred, calloused hands, she pressed a kiss to each palm tenderly. "Before you make any rash decisions, like letting me sleep alone, you ought to know that I'm falling in love with you." She said the words with a steadiness she was proud of, even if her voice was nearly a whisper.

His eyes darted back to her face, searching. He must have found what he sought, because he gathered her close without any hint of restraint and kissed her again. She would have been content to sit there kissing him forever – and maybe other things – but as her head angled to let him press his lips to her throat, something flashed across the sky.

"Wyldon, look!"

His head jerked up, and followed her pointing finger.

"The stars are falling."

Her fiancé looked down at her, laughter hiding in the shadows of his mouth. "So they are, Vivienne. So they are."


End file.
